


Be Glad You Sailed for a Better Day

by ShowMeAHero



Category: Jaws (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Marijuana, Mild Smut, Multi, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Sloppy Makeouts, Smoking, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-26 00:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20034649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “I heard the chief of police is easy on stoners,” Matt says. He takes the blunt back from Martin and blows smoke rings with it. He’s tried, onmultipleoccasions, to teach Martin how to blow smoke rings, too, but he just can’t figure it out. “Besides, I’ve got it onprettygood authority that he’ll do pretty much anything I ask him to.”





	Be Glad You Sailed for a Better Day

**Author's Note:**

> It's about fucking time, am I right?
> 
> Title taken from ["Rebels of the Sacred Heart"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gdlkx_cIqtE) by Flogging Molly.

Martin props himself up on one elbow, gazing out at the shimmering reflection of the moonlight on the ocean’s black waves. He hears a clack, a snap, and a light crackling sound. He turns his head just as Matt inhales sharply, then slowly blows a stream of smoke into Martin’s face. He shoves Matt away.

“You remember I’m the chief of police?” Martin asks. Matt leans into him, his temple pressed hard into Martin’s bony shoulder. He takes another deep drag of his blunt before he holds it out to Martin. Martin takes it without hesitation, pulls it in, slowly exhales it through his nose. Matt laughs, watching him smoke.

“I heard the chief of police is easy on stoners,” Matt says. He takes the blunt back from Martin and blows smoke rings with it. He’s tried, on _ multiple _ occasions, to teach Martin how to blow smoke rings, too, but he just can’t figure it out. “Besides, I’ve got it on _ pretty _good authority that he’ll do pretty much anything I ask him to.”

“Oh, yeah?” Martin says. Matt lifts his head to look at him just as he exhales, and Martin inhales sharply on the puff of smoke. He looks down at Matt’s lips, blinking away the smoke, and Matt smiles. Martin’s eyes dart up to his face.

“What’re you looking at, Martin?” Matt asks, like he knows _ exactly _what Martin is looking at. He probably does; he’s not an idiot.

“You,” Martin says. He takes the blunt back. It only takes a little while for him to feel it, but it takes much longer for Matt, who has, presumably, spent a lifetime building up his tolerance. He doesn’t look away from Matt as he takes another drag. Matt’s smile slips, becomes more intense, his pupils blowing, his cheeks darkening. He’s got so many sun-freckles this close up, so many blonde and white hairs in his beard, a tiny stain of a birthmark in the soft blue iris of his right eye. Martin reaches up, lightly touches Matt’s cheek.

Martin takes another drag, then slowly exhales. Matt’s lips part, and he breathes it in, leaning just that little bit closer. Martin’s fingers are tingling, staticky nerves and fiery heat. Matt inclines his head, and Martin nods. Matt scoots closer to him, sand sliding between them on the dark beach, and his hand closes over Martin’s in the sand, holding the both of them up. Martin is the one who makes the final move, tipping his chin forward to catch Matt’s lips. The corners of Matt’s mouth turn up in a smile, and he kisses back for a brief moment before he pulls back and takes the blunt from him.

“Did you think that one through first, Chief?” Matt asks, smoke trailing from his nose and mouth. “Or are you having a moment? Should I— Do I need to go?” Matt looks over his shoulder, and Martin unfreezes and reaches out, puts his hand on Matt’s jaw and lightly pulls him back in, turning his face back towards his before he kisses him again.

“Don’t go,” Martin murmurs against his mouth, and Matt nods, kissing him back, his fingers tightening over Martin’s in the sand. The little grains of sand scratch up the back of Martin’s hand, and he sighs. Matt pulls back, smokes again, then holds the blunt out. Martin reaches up to take it, but Matt holds it out of reach until Martin figures him out and just leans in. Matt holds the blunt for him while Martin smokes, and he shares the smoke when Martin breathes it out. He kisses him again, and Martin takes the roach from his hand.

“Are you sure?” Matt asks, as Martin smokes the very last of the roach and stubs out the sputtering embers in the sand. He turns back to Matt and kisses him again, and each time is better than the last. Martin nods.

“Never been surer,” Martin says. He kisses Matt a fourth time, then a fifth, and he has to pull back to tug Matt’s glasses off his face, and his own glasses off his own face. Matt grins at him as Martin tucks Matt’s folded glasses into the pocket of his shirt and cups Matt’s face in his hands before kissing him again. He’s starting to lose count of how many times they’ve kissed; he hopes he’s never able to count high enough to keep track again.

“What about—” Matt stops their kiss to ask, but Martin silences him with three fingertips to his mouth.

“No,” Martin tells him. “Don’t think about it. Nothin’ else but this, alright?”

“Sure,” Matt says, “sure, of course, but then we—”

“Hoop,” Martin interrupts him, and Matt huffs a breathless laugh. “You’re the worst person I know. Stop thinking so hard for once in your life, honey.”

Matt smiles, doesn’t say anything else, for _ once. _ Martin leans in and kisses him again, and again, and _ again, _ pressing Matt back into the sand and tangling his fingers in Matt’s hair and _ yanking. _Matt groans, bucks his hips up, and Martin knows nobody’s patrolling this area of the beach at this hour, and that even if they did, he’s the chief of police and can do whatever he want; these are all excuses, though, because, in the moment, he can only think of how determined he is to remove all of their clothes, sand and water be damned, and touch skin to skin.

“Martin,” Matt gasps, as Martin tugs Matt’s sweater off over his head. Matt’s skin ripples with gooseflesh, his profile moonlit when Martin glances at his face, and he can’t help but kiss his cheek, then the knob of his jaw, then the rounded bone of his shoulder.

“Don’t think,” Martin reminds him. He strokes his hand roughly over Matt’s head, then kisses his forehead. “Shut your brain off, I gotcha.”

Matt shuts his eyes and nods, lets Martin undress them both before kissing him again. The water starts to creep up on them, touching their ankles first, then their shins, inching higher and higher; the waves lap up further with each passing moment, and the moonlight catches in the droplets of water that cling to their skin as Martin fucks Matt into the sand. It’s a mess, it’s a crime, it’s madness, but he just _ cannot _bring himself to care. The only things that matter are the sounds that Matt is making, the expressions crossing his face, the way his nails dig into Martin’s skin, the look of his shining blue eyes in the post-dusk darkness. Matt bites into Martin’s hand when he comes, and Martin holds onto Matt close when he comes. He gathers Matt into his arms, holds him, leans over him and blankets him with his body. Matt holds him in return, strokes his back up, and down, and up, and down. Martin could almost sleep.

“Can we—” Matt starts to say, but Martin shakes his head. He twists to look Matt in the face, ear still pressed to his shoulder. They’re tangled together like seaweed, water chilling their skin, dampening the sand.

“Don’t think,” Martin says.

“I have to,” Matt tells him. Martin shuts his eyes. “Martin, what are we supposed to do in the morning? Or tomorrow, or next week, or next— next _ month? _ Do you want me to stay? Am I supposed to be your— your mistress, are you getting a divorce, are we having an _ affair—” _

“Matt,” Martin says. He rolls onto his back, frowning when the water splashes around him. He pulls their glasses out of his discarded shirt pocket and hands Matt his. Once he can properly see him, he kisses him again. “It’ll work out.”

“I still have to—”

“I know what I’m doing,” Martin says. He does; he and Ellen talked about this weeks ago, before they even left on the _ ORCA, _ and Ellen had cried and apologized for her feelings until Martin told her that he felt them, too, and that maybe they should ask Matt if they could _ do _something about it, and Ellen got that wicked look on her face that he fell in love with all over again every single day. “We’ll talk to Ellen tomorrow.”

“She’s going to _ kill me,” _Matt groaned, tossing his head back. Martin heard it splash into a wave, and Matt jumped to his feet. “Alright, that’s it, I’m not about to be swept out to sea over your cryptic comments. I need a shower, a cup of coffee, and a conversation with your wife, in that order.”

“Your wish is my command,” Martin says. Matt tosses his wet clothes at him. When Matt pushes his wet hair back from his face, Martin briefly remembers a shark cage, a broken heap of metal on the deck of a fishing boat, the bone-deep knowledge that Matt was dead—

He shakes off the feeling. Matt is grimacing as he tugs on his damp sweater, so very _ not _ dead, so very much _ alive, _ and Martin just has to drop his clothes and kiss him again, over Matt’s heated but short-lived argument that they had to get going sooner rather than later. When Martin pulls back, just a _ little _bit, and opens his eyes, Matt’s looking right back at him. His soft blue-grey eyes are sparkling; he’s lit up from the inside like a firefly. Martin pulls him in and holds him, just holds him, as the ocean wraps around their ankles and licks up their calves. Matt’s arms come around Martin’s waist, and he sighs.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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